I Suspect Nargles
by foolondahill17
Summary: Of Crumple Horned Snorkacks and love. "I've never been kissed by anyone before... What is one to do now?" Luna Lovegood, from the perspective of those around her. During and after the war, finding friendship and understanding where it's least expected. Featuring Draco, Dean, George, Neville, and more. Ch. 2, Dean contemplates art, the war, and Luna
1. Echo

Title: I Suspect Nargles

Summary: "No one's ever kissed me before…. What is one to do now?" Luna Lovegood, from the perspective of those around her. During and after the war, finding friendship and love where it's least expected. Featuring Draco, Dean, George, Neville, and more.

Rating: T, for violence earlier, and character death later.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, particularly any dialog you recognize as coming straight from the book.

Author's Note: I am unaware whether or not starting this story is wholly wise. I have a tentative story planned, perhaps working out to be about ten chapters. However, it will probably be updated sporadically as I'm not sure how much the Holiday season and general lack of inspiration is going to interfere. Be warned, if I don't end up posting the next chapter sometime near the New Year I will probably adapt this into a one-shot. But, who knows…. I'd love to see all of your thoughts on this, and reviews will probably encourage me more to the side of continuing.

I hope you enjoy it, please drop a line if you do – or if you don't.

This chapter came out a whole lot…darker than I first anticipated. The rest should be a tad more cheerful.

* * *

Chapter One – Echo:

Draco had barely stepped out of the fire, when he felt the familiar lurch in his stomach that meant his aunt was his only welcoming committee.

Bathed in shadows, leering and unhinged, Bellatrix cackled, "Go downstairs to see our new guest, Draco!"

Draco felt empty nausea sweep over him. Bellatrix's laughter reverberated off of the wall, sounding cavernous and unending. He stared at her for a moment, the heat and dizziness of his floo passage dissipated into the shadows of the room. His house didn't look familiar. Furniture was displaced. The lamps glowed lightless and eerie. Portraits of his white-face relatives glared at him from the walls, looking for all the world like ghosts.

"Another one?" Draco addressed his words to the shadow that had just walked through the door, his father. He felt sweat bead at his hairline.

His father was almost unrecognizable, like the house and the world. His hair was long and unkempt. There were dark bruises under his eyes and covering his jaw. He was filthy – something Draco was not accustomed to. Draco tried to avoid him.

"The Lovegood girl," said Lucius Malfoy hoarsely.

"The Dark Lord's given us strict orders to keep her here," cried Bellatrix delightedly, "He has use of her."

Draco felt another pitch in his stomach. "Lovegood's here?" said his lips, "You brought her here?" It had been barely twenty minutes since she'd been dragged off the Express, shrieking as Amycus Carrow yanked her hair. Draco had never imagined Luna Lovegood could look frightened; she'd always looked so…serene. The knowledge that that same girl was now below his feet in the cellar made him – made him feel sick.

Bellatrix was laughing. Draco wondered if it was at him. He had made sure to keep his face set, had not displayed emotion. Only his thoughts had taken the temporary flight but he – he could hide that from her, couldn't he? She had taught him occlumency…. Even so, he resolved not to allow such thoughts to trespass over his mind again. Just in case.

In case it wasn't just Bellatrix next time.

"Yes," croaked his father, "she's here."

"Why?" said Draco. "Why not Azkaban?"

"Her father's been causing trouble," whispered Lucius Malfoy, even his voice was unrecognizable. "The Dark Lord wants her within his reach. She's a friend of Potter."

Despite his resolution, Draco found his thoughts straying yet again. They would torture her. She would scream. _She didn't know anything about Potter._ No one knew anything about Potter. There wasn't any use keeping her _here_. She'd be just as much use in Azkaban.

Draco knew that wasn't true. Azkaban was reserved only for useless Mudbloods who didn't know anything. The Dark Lord couldn't risk the important prisoners' minds being eaten away by dementors. He couldn't risk their thoughts and memories being damaged. He needed to prey on their humanity to get them to talk. Azkaban was used only after they were broken.

There was no escaping it. Even at Hogwarts Draco couldn't get away. Screaming in the hallways and classrooms, reverberating off his skull in his nightmares…. Stupid first years who hadn't sense enough to _get out of the way_. Stupid, worthless blood-traitors who had to play the hero, who hadn't sense enough to know it was _useless_ –

Draco had realized it was useless long ago…it felt like long ago. When that – that old man had offered him sanctuary only to be tipped over the edge of the Astronomy Tower. There was no use struggling, but they continued to fight – writhing and screaming on the floor in agony time and time again….

"What is it, Draco?" purred Bellatrix in cackling delight. "You don't like the thought of her here? You think her screams will disturb your sleep?"

Draco felt cold and sick. He fought the bile that rose in his throat. "No," he said. He couldn't manage any more. He fought back the thoughts in his brain like it was a creeping disease, a curse, a physical malady. "Keep her here. It doesn't matter."

_Whatever the Dark Lord wishes._ Who was Draco to go against the will of the Dark Lord? Who was he to fight – to cast his family into the agony of punishment and death only when they'd _begged_ – His mother, bloody and beaten on the ground, his father groveling like an animal…just as Draco had been warned in his dreams. He was no one to fight. He had no choice, hadn't ever any choice.

"Wouldn't you like to meet her?" Bellatrix continued. "She's been crying…asking us what we've done to her father." She laughed again, a wild, chilling sound that, no matter how many times it had pierced his ears, Draco had not grown accustomed to. She sounded like an animal.

"Your mother's in her room, Draco," said Lucius. "She's waiting for you."

Draco met his father's eye and seized the merciful diversion. He turned on his heel to go.

"Don't you want to see Lovegood, Draco?" Bellatrix shrieked manically to his back. "Wouldn't you like to ask her what she knows about Potter?" Draco, despite his strongest efforts to stifle it, felt a shiver run up his back. He remembered Rowle and the others, and the surge of heat from his wand, emanating from the Cruciatus Curse. Surely they wouldn't – not this time – he didn't think he could stand to do it – not to _her_.

He didn't turn around and Bellatrix laughed again from his back. The key to Occlumancy was to close his mind, to be self-aware at all times. But Draco felt uncomfortably penetrated as he turned the corner, feeling his aunt's eyes on the back of his head even as cold rock and mortar hid him from her gaze.

* * *

Bellatrix had told him she'd been crying, but there was no trace of tears on her cheeks. She was pale, but looked completely composed. The darkness of the cellar, instead of swallowing her up as it did Ollivander, seemed to only serve as a backdrop – as if she was one of his dead relatives, sitting in her frame of tarnished silver.

Draco felt sick. He didn't know why he had come. She meant nothing to him. He couldn't seem to make himself leave.

"Are they going to hurt me?" she asked, her voice a whisper, soft and oddly soothing – as if it belonged to the melody of a song. She didn't seem to move her lips. It was as if her voice was in his own head. He didn't recall he'd ever heard it before, yet its ripples and undulations sounded vaguely familiar. Perhaps she had visited him in a dream.

He couldn't answer her. His voice was hidden somewhere in the twist of his throat.

"Have you come to let me out?" breathed her voice through the shadows. "Can I go home?"

"Yes," cackled Bellatrix, sounding so near that it was as if she too was inside his head. Draco turned in shock to find her but she was nowhere in the cellar, "Let her out, Draco. You know you want to…weakling…. You'll feel the Dark Lord's wrath the same as her –"

"Please…. Please, Draco. Let me out. Let me go. I want to go home. I'm afraid…."

"Do as she says, Draco. You traitor – you filth. Let her out and pay the price."

"Don't let them hurt me. Please…. Save me…. Don't – don't let them…."

"Do it, Draco! Make her scream! Take out your wand –"

"Please don't…. You're the only one who can save me. You're not like them. Please, don't…. Please, no…._don't_!"

Draco struggled awake. His chest was tight. He couldn't catch his breath. His sheets were wrapped around his legs, imprisoning him. He caught the gasp of alarm, of fear and torture that threatened to leap out of his throat just in time.

Around him the room was dark – void, safe…. His heart was hammering against his ribs, so hard it almost hurt. His chest hurt. His head hurt. Sweat ran down the back of his neck and trickled down his spine, making him shiver.

Lovegood's face hovered on the forefront of his mind. He swallowed the bile that had gathered in his throat and shakily lay back on his pillows. The key to Occlumancy was to close his mind, to always be self-aware – to shut down his innermost thoughts. He lay on his back and stared at the shadow bathed ceiling, and tried again.

* * *

Snow drifted down from the sky and collected like feathers on the ground. Draco remembered when he had been young how he used to relish the snow. He enjoyed the cold. He had liked the way the gentle pellets of ice collected in his hand and melted into steaming droplets of water when they lighted on his face. He liked the way the dark gray and brown of the hedges looked covered in the snow. He liked the bight behind the wind and the sting it left in his cheeks.

Now he huddled by the weak flames in the grate, emanating sickly heat in the drawing room. Everything was weak, nothing held warmth. He shivered under layers of sweatshirts and sat stiffly by the fire, hating the snow and chill.

He wondered if it was cold in the cellar.

His hands held a schoolbook he was supposed to be pursuing. He placed the book down next to him on the chair and flexed his fingers, ashen gray against the shadow drenched room. His fingers were long, spidery, trembling…cold. Everything was cold.

When he was young he used to enjoy this time. It meant warm, rich smells wafting from the kitchen and flickering lighted candles. Green wreaths would hang on the mantles with red bows and gold baubles. It was Christmas Eve, Draco wondered if that was supposed to mean something.

Bellatrix was upstairs. His father was in the study. His mother was in her room. For once Draco was alone. All was quiet. The silence was haunting.

Slowly Draco became aware of another sound, hiding behind the dying crackle of the flames. It was gentle and unrecognizable, yet strangely familiar. Draco raised himself in his chair. He felt his muscles go slowly taught.

The sound whispered through the room. Draco felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up on end, his back erupted into gooseflesh. His hands folded into fists. He clenched his teeth.

The sound grew louder. It reverberated off the ceiling and walls. It echoed in the cracks, against the walls of Draco's skull. The crackle of the fire disappeared, along with the beating of his heart.

It was a song.

Broken, disjointed, out-of-tune, but nonetheless recognizable as a song. Her voice was high-pitched and fluty.

It was a Christmas carol.

Something Draco had heard every year since he could remember. It was a somber, soulful tune that spoke of joy, love, peace, faith – It hit Draco like a knife, ripped at his heart with such excruciating agony that he wanted to scream.

There was a scattering of footfalls against the hardwood floor and Draco leapt from his seat. His mouth dropped open. To say what, he did not know. Perhaps _No, let her sing_ –

His mother appeared in the open doorway, her face drawn and pale and utterly horrified. She cast him a frightened glance before racing across the room and out of sight. He heard her footsteps as she clattered down the steps to the cellar. Almost unconsciously Draco tripped over his feet to follow her.

It was darker down the steps then it had even been in the drawing room. Slowly the darkness enclosed them. His mother's white robes were swallowed in the lightlessness. Draco's feet followed the familiar way down the stairs, and halted when they reached level ground.

His mother had taken out her wand. Suddenly a bead of blinding light erupted at the end of it and the door they faced swung open with a creak. The singing stopped.

Draco's eyes took a moment to adjust to the unsteady mix of light and dark. Something stopped him from entering the room, but he hovered uncertainly on the edge of the threshold. His hand found its way to the doorframe, cool metal that stung his flesh, and he wrapped his fingers around any kind of handhold he could grasp.

Lovegood was sitting in the corner of the room. Just as she had in his dream her white skin and hair seemed to glow in the darkness of the cellar. She looked shockingly untouched. Ollivander groveled beside her, gray and invisible against her radiance.

Draco's mother stalked into the room. Lovegood stared patiently up at her, not standing, not flinching.

"Isn't it Christmas Eve?" said a voice, soft and cracked. Her voice was strangely also like the one in his dream. Lovegood's lips opened again, "I've tried to keep track of the days. But it's possible I've made a mistake –"

There was a crack as his mother slapped Lovegood's cheek and drew her hand back for another blow. Draco flinched. His fingers tensed around the doorframe.

Ollivander murmured weakly in protest.

"Stupid girl!" hissed Narcissa Malfoy in a voice Draco had only ever heard her use on filth. "Don't you know she'll kill you if you keep that up?"

Lovegood raised a hand to caress her cheek. Her eyes were wide and curious.

"I'm sorry," she said simply.

Narcissa's hand dropped to her side. She swept away on her heel and stalked away. She tightly grasped Draco's arm in her fingers, nails biting into his flesh, and pulled him away.

* * *

Longbottom's face was red, screwed up in anger and practically steaming. Draco felt the cold rock pressed up against his back, felt Longbottom's paws tightening on his shoulders.

"Where is she?" Longbottom hissed, his face inches from Draco's so that he could feel the hot stream of Longbottom's breath on his face. "You _know_, Malfoy! You and your lot have her locked up somewhere – tell me where you've got her or so help me I'll take out my wand –"

"Get off of me, Longbottom," Draco spat. He felt Longbottom's hands trembling. Draco's eyes flickered to the right and to the left. Somehow he had managed to find himself in an empty corridor.

"You pure-blood filth!" Longbottom gasped. His eyes were shining in wrath. Draco had never imagined Longbottom could hold so much pent up power – "Luna's worth five-hundred of you!"

Draco felt his lip rise in a sneer, felt the words leave his mouth because it was habit and he could not stop them, "Get your hands off of me, Longbottom, if you know what's good for you."

The hold Longbottom had on Draco's shoulders loosened, "You tell me where she is, Malfoy! I swear – if you've hurt her – if she's been hurt – I swear…."

"What?" said Draco's voice, "anything you do to me will be paid back tenfold in time. Perhaps they'll take it out on your friend –"

Something hard plowed its way into Draco's stomach. He felt his breath leave him. He would have doubled-over had Longbottom's other hand not still pressed him against the wall.

Draco knew he could raise the alarm by yelling. Longbottom was on the Carrows' list. He would get worse by far than Draco could give him. They would make him scream, like they had made Lovegood scream – and scream. And Lovegood was _singing_ –

Longbottom's fist smashed into Draco's nose. Draco felt his head snap backward and crack the stone wall. Longbottom's other hand released him and Draco slumped to the floor.

Draco felt the slight vibrations through the floor as Longbottom marched away. Draco grasped the cobblestone floor with his fingers. There wasn't much pain, just heat. The back of his head was burning, his nose was on fire. His face fell against his knees and he felt hot blood seep through his robes. He shut his eyes against the explosion of lights gone off in his head.

Slowly he took a deep breath. His ribs ached as his lungs expanded and the growing pain in his head grew sharper and piercing. His eyes flickered open and the dim light of the hallways made him feel dizzy. He leant his back against the wall and slowly, painfully, pushed himself into a standing position. He leant one shoulder against the wall as he shuffled down the corridor.

There would be questions asked. People would want to know how he'd been hurt – who had done it. Longbottom had done it. Draco could tell them simply. It was a chance to get back.

Longbottom, who was looking for information on Lovegood. Longbottom wanted to make sure she wasn't hurt, was still alive. Lovegood who was imprisoned beneath the floors of Draco's _house_ –

Draco slumped into the Hospital Wing where Madame Pomfrey repaired his nose with an impatient flick of her wand. Her attitude suggested that Draco disserved what he got. Draco sneered at her, took out his own wand to clean his robes, and left.

The door swung shut behind him.

* * *

Easter came all too soon. The school year seemed to be flashing before Draco's eyes, along with hazy rumors of what was going on outside – cackled threats from the Carrows – hastily scribbled notes from his mother. The war waged on. It slipped through his fingers in an unstoppable trickle of sand.

Draco arrived in the drawing room accompanied by a roar of green flame. He brushed ashes off the shoulders of his robes. His mother bustled forward. She looked more pale and drawn than she had seemed when he last left her. She was thin and wavering, as if part of her had vanished over the months.

"Bring this down to the cellar," she said by way of greeting. She thrust a wooden tray, holding plates of dry bread and meats into his hands.

Draco fumbled for a hold on it. His fingers seemed suddenly unwieldy. His mouth opened to form some sort of protest. _Servant's work. What about Wormtail?_ But his mother cut him off,

"He's in there," she hissed, nodding to the closed door of the adjoining room. Her voice held a carefully restrained sound that Draco had never detected before. It was almost as if she was suppressing hysterics. There was no need to ask who was _he_.

His fingers found their way around the curved edges of the tray. He felt something clench in his chest and he walked to the cellar stairs without a sound.

The door behind them opened. "Draco," slithered a voice across the room. It crept in the cracks and crevices of Draco's mind; it wound itself about his will. _Close his mind_, shrieked a voice in Draco's consciousness. His fingers went numb so that he almost dropped the tray. "Welcome back from Hogwarts. Come, join us."

Draco fought the nausea rising in his throat and turned around. The red eyes glowed in the shadows, overtaking the gleam of white skin. The red eyes met Draco's gray, met them and caught them. Draco felt the spidery fingers enclose about his mind, probing, searching –

"What have you to hide, Draco?" hissed the voice across the empty expanse of the room, the twisting spaces between shadows and reality. Draco's heart thudded in his chest. The plates on the tray rattled as he fought the trembling in his hands.

Slowly Draco lowered his defenses. He hadn't any choice. He couldn't hide it. There wasn't any point. He released the thoughts bounding beneath the layers of his mind. He relaxed his resolve. He fought the block in his throat but still his voice came out a whisper, "Nothing, My Lord."

The Dark Lord smiled. He pierced Draco's mind with his own. Draco winced. His stomach clenched. The Dark Lord turned with a wrench and Draco was released.

"Come," said the Dark Lord.

Draco's mother faltered forward and relieved Draco of the tray. Her eyes flitted across Draco's face, wide, blue eyes that burned with something Draco could not recognize. His mother, too, released him, and Draco moved to follow the Dark Lord into the next room.

Draco took his place beside his father, who did not acknowledge his arrival. Strangely Draco felt cheated. His mother had been there to meet him. He felt disgust towards his father, whom seemed even more unkempt and disheveled since Christmas. _It was his fault_…. The thoughts surprised him. He had never felt that way towards his father before. He had felt dignity, pride, shame at his expense, but never contempt.

"I am going abroad," hissed the Dark Lord. "I request –" the snake that the Dark Lord kept by his side was winding its way around an empty chair, "that I should not be summoned for anything less than what I deem…imperative."

The meeting went on. Reports were given. The snake wound its way onto the table and flicked its tongue at Draco. He tried to avoid looking at it. He thought of what, perhaps, the Dark Lord had seen when searching his mind. What treacherous thoughts had Draco allowed to stray across his mind? He thought uneasily of Lovegood – crumpled beneath his feet and a captor of his dreams – obsessive, unending, inescapable.

Draco could feel the Dark Lord's eyes on the side of his head. He was frozen to his place, terrified to guard his thoughts but terrified should the Dark Lord read them. A creeping pressure grew in the corners of his mind, infecting it, searching it for any shadow of doubt – of treachery.

"Draco." the voice startled Draco to look up. It was his mother's voice, emanating from behind the door. The muscles in his legs flexed to stand, to flee, but he remember to look to the head of the table first, where the Dark Lord's eyes were watching him.

"Yes, Draco," said the Dark Lord silkily, hiding a sneer and contempt, threat of punishment, "You may go to your mother."

The Death Eaters around the table laughed, hiding snickers that breathed of so much more than mockery, but malice. Draco stood. His eyes flickered to the Dark Lord's face but flickered away before they could again be seized.

The door swung shut behind him, not hiding him from the Dark Lord's gaze, he knew.

His mother was waiting with the tray.

"Go," she whispered, and placed it into his arms once again. "Stay with me when you come back up."

The task again breathed of petty servant's work but half of Draco felt unreachable gratitude towards his mother. Her eyes gleamed of understanding, Draco knew not from where she had grasped it.

He tread the stairs slowly. They were not people down there, he had decided some time ago. They were no longer people – never had been people. They were clanking skeletons, reflections of people, a mockery. They were tools, nothing more than something to help the cause. Sometimes they were information, sometimes they were weapons, but they did not have souls.

He would drop the tray inside the door. He would not linger. He would not look. He would not think that it was fellow human beings he was feeding. They needed sustenance because they needed to be kept alive. They were of use and needed to be kept alive. They were not people.

He pushed open the door slowly. The grating shriek of its hinges pounded against his eardrums. It was dark in the cellar, unreached by light so that if a flame was lit Draco was sure it would be stifled from the utter heaviness of the shadow.

"Stay away from the door," his voice said, not thinking. It was a necessity, a habit. He crouched and slid the tray across the ground.

"You're back," said a voice in the darkness. It was a voice still recognizable, despite its parchedness and hidden despair beneath its undulations. "Is it Easter?"

Draco backed up slowly, curiously unwilling to expose his back to the shadows, the ghosts. His eyes flickered upward of their own accord and he caught a glimpse of lifeless white – _she_.

His eyes flew back to the ground. He would not linger. He would not look.

It was a torturous system that grew into agonizing habit. Her voice hurt, so gently wafting through the air and into his ears. He didn't look at her. He refused to look at her.

She was pallid and diminished, like her outer shell had evaporated into the walls, leaving her shrunken and ghost-like, an echo. She was always looking at him. He could _feel_ her. He would not meet her eyes, because they held disease. They held pleading and emotion, and irrefutable evidence that she did in face have a soul. Very rarely would she speak, but sometimes she would.

"Please, are Ginny and Neville alright? Wait – don't go! You know – you know that they're alright," Her voice was broken, cracked and desperate, and unnatural to emanate from such a source, when she should rightly be full, and whole, and healthy. _They_ – Draco – had stolen that from her.

"Tell me! Please, don't leave…. What does grass feel like? Please…. Is the sky still blue?" As he turned his back it was again as if her voice breathed from inside his own head. "Answer me! No! Don't leave – you're not like them. I know – I know you're not. You lowered your wand –" the door clanged shut.

Draco fled to his room where he perched himself on the edge of his bed and realized he was shaking. He tried not – not to think.

* * *

Granger was screaming. Bellatrix was cackling in a perverse duet of fury and delight. She – she enjoyed this. Weasley was bellowing from the floor below them. Potter – Draco _knew_ it was him – was curiously silent. Draco pressed his back up against the wall, unaware that he was shirking away.

He'd never heard Granger scream – not like this. He'd never seen her writhe on the floor in agony, screaming for it to stop, for death. Draco had seen plenty of people tortured. He had seen them killed. But – but not like this….

"It isn't the real sword!" Granger shrieked, her voice hysterical, desperate, high-pitched and pitiful. Draco clenched his fists and felt his stomach twist. He felt like he might be sick. "It's a copy, just a copy!"

"A copy?" said Bellatrix, her voice almost a triumphant crow because Granger was whimpering, "Oh, a likely story!" she raised her wand again. Draco knew she didn't care if Granger was telling the truth or lying. She wanted her to scream. Bellatrix only wanted to cause pain, to break her –

"Bella," said Draco's mother quietly, firmly and laced with warning.

"But we can find out easily," said Draco's father excitedly. His face shone with sweat in the flickering candles of the chandelier. He ran his tongue over his gray lips in eagerness, "Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not."

Draco felt something in his stomach jump in shock. He had not expected to be called upon. He had half-forgotten he was present. It seemed as if he had been watching the scene from a place apart, he felt detached. He was brought back to the present with a painful jerk.

To go down to the cellar, retrieve the goblin, to feel Potter and Weasley's eyes on the back of his head, to be in the presence of Lovegood – whom would be glowing apart from the rest, painfully _there_ and watching him –

His mother and father were watching him. Bellatrix was breathing hard, glaring at him with fevered eyes. Granger was slumped on the floor, hand grappling at the floor, and gasping for air.

Draco swallowed and felt his saliva scrape painfully down his throat. He turned and stumbled to the stairs of the cellar. His wand was suddenly grasped in his hand. They might jump him. They were desperate. Draco was desperate.

He reached the door and grasped the cool handle in his empty fist. The hinges squealed and his voice came from between his lips, "Stand back. Line up against the back wall. Don't try anything, or I'll kill you!" _Kill you_ – he would kill them. He would have to kill them. Bellatrix would get there first and make them scream, too….

He did not look. He did not linger. The goblin was sitting on the ground. Draco crept into the cellar and pulled it to its feet. It was a disgusting creature. It was covered in wrinkled skin and seemed disoriented. Draco didn't want to touch it. He dragged it with him as he moved back toward the door.

His eyes swept the prisoners, passed Weasley who looked red and distressed, passed Potter whose face was still blotchy and swollen, passed the other boy who looked terribly familiar – another schoolmate – passed Ollivander whom was crumpled on the ground, to Lovegood. She was pale and luminescent. Her eyes were wide and terrified – terrified….

The door closed with a crack that echoed in the stairwell and in Draco's skull. Noises seemed louder. Draco could hear everything as if it was pointed directly into his ears. His heart was thumping in his ears.

Draco hoisted the goblin up the stairs. It seemed either unwilling or unable to use its legs. Draco reached the top of the flight and deposited the animal as Bellatrix's feet. Draco looked away from Granger and retreated back to the wall.

"Please, Griphook…" said a voice. A voice unlike any Draco had ever heard because it was so unlike _hers_ – unlike Grangers. It was not the chirped, clipped tone she used for answering questions. It was not the disdainful voice she used when confronting him. It was not the voice of a seventeen-year-old girl. It was cracked and desperate, begging, pleading – Draco wanted to clap his hands over his ears. Granger was screaming again. Bellatrix was bellowing.

Draco shut his eyes but forced them open again because he couldn't let anyone notice. He could not display weakness.

Bellatrix was brandishing her knife at the goblin. The goblin was muttering something and Granger was again lying face down on the rug. She was barely moving, trembling slightly, and her hand was twitching.

There was a loud crack from beneath their feet. Draco jumped.

"What was that?" said Draco's father, "Did you hear that? What was that noise in the cellar?"

Draco felt his hands shaking. Everything was very still, nothing moved, nothing made a sound. The air around them waited.

"Draco –" said his father hoarsely, "no, call Wormtail! Make him go and check!"

There was silence. Draco could hear his heart beating in its mist. Wormtail arrived in the drawing room and disappeared down to the cellar. His voice murmured something, the door creaked open, there was a pause –

"What is it, Wormtail?" said Draco's father.

"Nothing!" screeched a voice up the stairs, "All fine!"

Bellatrix turned back to the goblin. She thrust the ruby encrusted sword into its paws and screeched, "Tell me! Is it a fake?"

"Griphook –" whispered Granger.

Bellatrix turned her wand on her in a spasm and hissed, "Do not _speak_, Mudblood."

Granger screamed again, thrashing violently on the floor. It stopped. Draco leaned against the wall. Momentarily he was afraid that he, too, had shouted. In his mind he was yelling. Granger's scream was echoing in his head, pulsing with his blood, filling his veins with cold.

"Well?" spat Bellatrix to the goblin, "Is it the true sword?"

"No," it said. "It is a fake."

"Are you sure?" Bellatrix's back was to Draco, but he could see her shoulders heave with barely concealed excitement. "Quite sure?"

The goblin nodded and the tightened its fingers around the sword, "Yes."

"Good," said Bellatrix. She straightened up from the floor. Her manner was no longer wild, deranged, but she sounded unexpectedly matter-of-fact, triumphant. She ran her knife across the goblin's face. "And now we call the Dark Lord."

Her fingers brushed aside her sleeve and caressed the dark, twisting brand on her arm in a fluid motion. The mark upon Draco's own arm seethed with unexpected fury. Draco fought the urge to grasp his forearm in his hand. His arm burned for longer than usual. Draco felt terrible misgiving erupt into his being. The Dark Lord was angry. Potter was _here_ –

"And I think," Bellatrix continued, prodding Granger with her toe, "we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her." Draco felt his stomach lurch and there was a shout –

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Draco whirled about. There was a flash of red hair and blinding light. Draco hadn't time to think what had happened. His wand was in his hand again and he was shouting the first curses that came to mind. There was the sound of shattering glass and scuffling. Draco dropped to the ground for some kind of cover. Everyone was shouting. Draco's father was lying lifeless by the fire –

"STOP OR SHE DIES!"

Draco felt his own heart stammer, as if Bellatrix's threat was intended for him. He slowly straightened up and turned to look at her. Granger was limp in Bellatrix's arms. Bellatrix had her knife pressed to Granger's throat.

Stop or she died. She was going to die. They were all going to die – the mark on Draco's arm was still seething. The Dark Lord was coming.

"Drop your wands," Bellatrix hissed. "Drop them, or we'll see exactly how filthy her blood is!"

Weasley and Potter stood, speechless and unmoving. They were the only of the rest of the prisoners. Draco wondered where the others had gone. He thought hazily of the noises they had heard earlier. He wondered how they had gotten wands.

"I said, drop them!" Bellatrix shrieked.

"All right!" Potter yelled hastily, and his wand clattered to the floor. Weasley's, too, landed at his feet.

"Good," said Bellatrix. "Draco, pick them up! The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches!"

The Dark Lord was coming. Potter – Potter was dead. Everything would be over…. It took a moment for Draco to realize Bellatrix had given him an order. He tripped over his feet in his hastiness to do as she said.

He bent at Potter's and Weasley's feet. It was Bellatrix's wand by Potter's, Wormtail's by Weasley. Draco wondered what they had done to Wormtail. It had all been so silent. Everything had happened so quickly.

"Now," said Bellatrix, when Draco had straightened up and backed away, "Cissy, I think we ought to tie these little heroes up again, while Greyback takes care of Miss Mudblood. I am sure the Dark Lord will not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you have done tonight." Bellatrix stopped speaking. She raised her head to the ceiling, where a rattling sound was beginning to emanate into the room.

Draco looked up. The crystal chandelier above them was shaking. Cracks were beginning to spread into the ceiling from its support. Draco realized what was happening a second before it began to fall –

Bellatrix shrieked. The goblin shouted feebly. There was a shattering crash and shards of glass rocketed into the air. Draco tried to turn out of the way but a something leapt at his face. His hands flew to cover his eyes. He felt blood trickle from between his fingers.

Someone was suddenly on him. Draco heard Potter's frantic breathing in his ears. Potter grappled for the wands in Draco's hand and Draco struggled for a frantic second. He felt his fingers go limp and Potter pulled away. _Let him have the wands…let them get away…they'd die sooner or later…it didn't matter. _The Dark Lord was _coming_ –

There was a flash of red light, visible even from behind Draco's fingers. Someone's hand tightened around Draco's arm and he was lurched away. His mother pushed him slightly and hissed, "Draco, get out –" she suddenly let go and her voice shrieked, "Dobby!"

Draco pulled his hands away from his face and brushed away the blood trickling down his forehead away from his eyes.

"You! _You_ dropped the chandelier –?" said his mother.

A creature with abnormally large eyes and ears and ill-fitting skin stepped into the room. Draco choked on his breath because it was ridiculous – _unthinkable_. It was Dobby, the disgusting little house elf – _their_ house elf….

"You must not hurt Harry Potter," said Dobby shrilly. He was shaking. He looked terrified. Draco stared at him. He had noticed his absence, of course, all those years ago Dobby had disappeared. Draco's father had always been mysteriously mum on the subject. But it – it didn't make any sense that Dobby should be back here, _now_ –

"Kill him, Cissy!" said Bellatrix. There was a crack and Draco's mother's wand was suddenly in the elf's hand.

"You dirty little monkey!" Bellatrix looked deranged, she was trembling so that her voice was almost incoherent. "How dare you take a witch's wand, how dare you defy your masters?"

"Dobby has no master!" squeaked the house elf. "Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!"

It was – it was ridiculous…. Draco couldn't believe this was happening. Panic began to course through his veins. They couldn't – they couldn't get away. His arm was burning. The Dark Lord was _coming_.

"Ron, catch – and GO!" Potter bellowed. It was all happening too quickly. Weasley caught the wand Potter threw at him, and turned on the spot to disparate with Granger. Potter lunged for the goblin, grabbed hold of Dobby and – they were gone.

The silence that met the crack of apparition was crushing, terrifying – Bellatrix screamed. Draco stared at the suddenly, horrifyingly, empty space where Potter had been. The Dark Lord was _coming_ and they – they _didn't have Potter_….

A hand enclosed around Draco's arm. His mother's fingers dug into his flesh and pulled him away. Her breathing was rapid and terrified. "Go," she said jerkily, "Get out. He's coming. To Hogwarts – Snape will protect you…."

"No," said Draco's lips, "come with me –"

"I can't," his mother whispered, drawing him deeper into the house, away from Bellatrix and Lucius, where the Dark Lord would first strike. "He'll call it treachery. But you – if it's just you we can lie and say you were never here. You left after the meeting to spend Easter at Hogwarts. He – he can't touch you –"

"No," said Draco. He didn't recognize his voice. The pounding in his ears was making it hard to think. He was shaking. His mother was shaking. "I won't leave you –" not when this was for her. Images of her bloody and beaten on the floor flashed before his eyes. The Dark Lord was coming. Everything that Draco had feared was coming. He hadn't been able to stop it. Draco had failed.

"Don't be stupid," hissed Narcissa, snatching frantically for a pot of floo powder they kept by the fire. "I won't let him take my son –"

There was an ear-splitting crack. Draco felt the mark on his arm flare with heat so intense he felt a hiss of pain escape his lips. His mother flinched but Draco realized she did not have the mark –

"Go," she whispered, her voice breaking. She pressed the jar of floo powder into his hands. Draco's fingers were shaking so violently he almost dropped it.

Rooms away where they had left them, Bellatrix began to shriek. Draco couldn't yet hear the cruel hiss of the Dark Lord's voice but he knew he was in the house. Draco could feel his presence, his pulsing anger, as if it was the creeping smoke of a fire. The Dark Lord was coming and Draco's _mother_ –

"Please, Draco," whispered his mother's voice. "I love you –"

"Draco, Narcissa." The pot of floo powder slipped from Draco's fingers and shattered on the floor. "What are you doing so far away from the rest of your family?"

The Dark Lord's red eyes gleamed in the darkness. Narcissa moved to throw her arms across Draco's chest. "No," she shrieked, utter terror replacing reason. "Don't, My Lord! Let him go – not my son!"

The Dark Lord was smiling. He fingered his wand.

Draco saw his mother's cascading blond hair because her back was to him. She was guarding him, protecting him – there wasn't any _point_. Draco felt his hand enclose around his mother's wrist. Gently he pushed her arm down from his chest.

The Dark Lord's red eyes flared in suppressed anger. His wand rose.

* * *

Draco wondered if Lovegood had felt exhilaration while being apparated away by the house elf. She must have felt a wild throw of joy – something unexplainable, unbelievable. Draco might have experienced something of the same thing, in its very earliest beginnings. It had been the steady pulse of hope, something wonderful and unattainable.

Dumbledore had pitched over the wall of the Astronomy Tower and it had been gone, that feeling, in a flash of green light.

Someday the end would come for Lovegood, too.

Draco slowly opened his eyes. He recognized the coarse spring of the carpet beneath his fingers. He was still on the floor. His chest slowly rose and fell with his breath. So he was not dead. It had not ended.

Something stirred by his side. In the almost pitch-black of the room he distinguished the shadow of his mother, sitting with her knees drawn to her chest by his side. He had never seen her so relaxed, so without reserve. She was alien to him.

She must have sensed his consciousness, perhaps heard a change in his breathing, or felt him stir at her side, for she turned to look at him. Her eyes glinted in the darkness. Her fingers enclosed around his hand.

"He's gone, sweetheart," she whispered. Her voice was choked with tears, perhaps hoarse from her screams. "It's alright now."

Draco opened his mouth to say something. His throat felt closed and sore.

His mother shushed him gently. Her other hand brushed the hair off his forehead. Her fingers felt cool, almost icy against his hot skin. "Don't speak, sweetheart." She whispered.

Draco wondered what had become of his father. Perhaps the Dark Lord had gone to him and Bellatrix after he'd been done with Draco and his mother.

Draco remembered with a lurch in his stomach that Lucius had been unconscious. Bellatrix had probably waited on her knees, penitent, patient for punishment.

"You're safe now, Draco," his mother murmured. She shifted so that she lay on the floor beside him. She pressed her cheek, cool and drenched with tears against his. "You're going to be alright." Her fingers entwined with his. Draco realized he was shaking again. She must have felt him for she threw her other arm around his shoulder. "Don't – sweetheart, you're alright."

Draco turned his face away from hers so that she would not feel the tears that overflowed down his cheeks. He focused on keeping his breathing even, unaware that his fingers had tensed in hers.

"It's alright," her voice whispered in his ear. "It's alright."

Draco's mind flew to Lovegood, who breathed and wept beneath him –

But she was not in the cellar anymore, not anymore. She was no longer – She had escaped. Draco knew not how long he had been unconscious but it could not have been more than a few hours – it might have been days. She was – was gone. _She_ was alright.

Draco tried not to think that _she_ was free.

* * *

Author's Note: This was inspired in part by the dusting of snow on the lawn I awoke to this morning. Christmas comes but once a year and it's getting closer every moment.

Next chapter possibly: Luna was a masterpiece more beautiful than Dean could ever hope to paint… and why Dean's boggart is a severed hand.


	2. Blank Canvass

Author's Note: I decided to continue. I hope everyone enjoys this next chapter. I would love some reviews.

Please excuse Fleur's accent, not at all how I do a French accent but I sort of stayed within Rowling's guidelines and it didn't come out quite how I would have liked it to.

* * *

Chapter Two – Blank Canvass:

"I wonder if he goes where we go," her voice was soft and contemplative. It was wispy, as if it might blow away at the slightest breath of wind, and hid something of a musical quality.

Dean looked up. Dawn was seeping through the windows, brightening quickly to full morning. "What?" he asked Luna, who was kneeling on the sofa beside him. Her back was to the room and she was looking out the window, to the sun rising above the ocean and over the cliff Shell Cottage rested on.

"Dobby," Luna explained, and answered her own question. "He's an elf, but magical creatures aren't like other creatures are they? _He_ has a soul. I'm sure he's there. I'm sure he's happy."

Dean had never heard it so put. He stared at Luna and she didn't seem to sense his gaze. She was disheveled. Her robes had faded to a washed out, blurred gray color. He wondered if she had had access to a change of clothes there – at Malfoy Manner. Probably not.

He wondered how long she had been there. It must have been terrifying. There hadn't seemed to be any hint of hope in the cellar. Her whole being seemed faded, bleached from lack of joy and sunlight. Dean wondered if that was why she was so soaking in the scene outside the window.

"I'm sure he is," Dean heard his voice answer her. They were alone in the sitting room. Fleur was in the kitchen. Bill had hastily followed her. Dean could hear their anxious muttering even through the closed door. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were upstairs, talking to Griphook and Ollivander.

Dean didn't understand any of this. He didn't understand the twisting riddles and cryptic hints. He didn't understand what Harry, Ron, and Hermione needed to talk to the others about. Dean had been hiding in the wilderness for more than eight months, basically cut off from anything regarding the world – _this_ world. He didn't understand the war.

"Yes," said Luna happily. Smiling as the sun broke the edge of the cliff and ignited her face. Her large, orb-like eyes glinted in the touch of sunlight, appearing as if they were two miniature suns of her own.

She looked almost transparent, in the sudden douse of full light. She was thin, almost sickly. Dark shadows were beneath her eyes. Her hair was straggly and tangled. Half-healed scabs ran down her face. Her hands, grasping the back of the sofa, were thin and frail looking. Her veins stood out against the back of her fists in protruding, blue-tinted banks. Dean wondered how long it had been since she'd eaten.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. He was. It had been longer than he could recall when he tasted something other than what was scrounged up on the trail. It was odd to be in a house again, to be sitting on a well-cushioned seat. As soon as he thought of this Dean felt incredibly sleepy.

"Yes, thank you," said Luna simply, not taking her eyes off the rising sun. Dean wondered if it hurt her eyes, so unaccustomed to light as they must be.

Dean stood from the sofa. He walked across the sitting room, noticing his legs were oddly stiff. He wasn't used to casually loping through carpeted rooms. He wasn't used to humanity.

He reached the kitchen door and slipped it gently open. He saw Bill and Fleur within and immediately remembered he should have knocked. Their murmured voices were cut off as they heard the door creak. They turned to look at him.

"I'm sorry," said Dean hastily. He was curiously embarrassed, "I didn't mean to intrude – don't mean to intrude. Thank you – by the way – for everything," he didn't know what he was doing. Bill and Fleur looked at him, questioning but patient. Dean didn't remember how to talk to anyone who were not goblins, humans who were not – Dirk…or Ted. "I can't appreciate more – I can't tell you how much this means. I didn't know what was going to happen to us back at the Malfoy's –"

"Pleese," cut in Fleur smoothly. Her voice was rich and throaty. Dean recognized her pointedly from the Triwizard Tournament. She was still beautiful, one of the reasons he had found it so difficult to form his words. "Do not mention eet, Dean. We are 'appy to do anything we can."

"Thank you," said Dean again, feeling breathless. He turned to Bill instead; perhaps it would make it easier. "We – Luna and I – not to intrude – but we were wondering if you had anything to eat…."

Fleur's eyes widened in horrified hospitality, "Oh, of course, Dean. I apologize for not theenking of eet myself. Anything you want." She began bustling about the kitchen, gathering things into her arms. She moved rhythmically. Her silver sheet of hair swung across her back in steady pulses.

"Thank you," Dean breathed. "Please, no trouble. Let me help –"

Bill smiled at him in a way that spoke of camaraderie. "Don't worry about it, Dean. You can tell Luna to come to the table. You two have been through enough."

Dean thanked them again and was happy to leave. He went back to Luna, who had not moved from the window. Curiously he didn't feel with her as he had felt with Bill and Fleur. With Luna there wasn't much pressure of conversation.

"They're getting us something to eat," said Dean. Luna didn't stir. "They said we could come to the table. Luna?"

"Alright," Luna turned only to flash him an appreciative smile, and then looked back to the sun. "It's beautiful," she said.

Dean stared out with her. The sun touched the blades of grass, glinting in stripes of silver. It had been a long time since Dean had noticed things like that. He used to see things of beauty easily. The war had got him out of practice.

"It is," he whispered.

"I'll come to the table in a bit, Dean. I want to remember." Dean felt something twist painfully in his stomach at the thought of what Luna's words might imply. Remember because she had almost forgotten, locked up in that lightless hole. Dean had never known Luna well, but he knew enough that she without sunlight was as unthinkable as the sky without the color blue.

"Alright," he said, but lingered a bit to watch out the window too. _He_ wanted, too….

Fleur called that the tea was ready. Dean tore himself away from the window. Luna jumped lightly off the sofa. "It hasn't changed," she said offhandedly. Dean wondered if she meant the sun.

They took seats around the spindly legged table. Everything in Shell Cottage was light and thin, airy to embrace the scenery around it. Nothing was heavy or dark colored. Everything seemed touched by the sunrise and the salt in the air. Fleur brought them steaming cups of tea and a platter of rolls.

Dean grabbed a fistful, suddenly ravenous. Whatever else Fleur was cooking was wafting from beneath the door on a tantalizing stream. He tore into the bread with his teeth and chewed it, washing it down with a gulp of scalding tea. It hurt his throat, going down. The tea was too hot and the bits of unchewed crust scraped his flesh but Dean didn't care. He took another bight.

Across the table from him, Luna was picking her roll apart with her fingers. She ate the pieces carefully and methodically, punctuated by gentle sips of her tea.

"It isn't infusion of Gurdyroot by I suppose it's passable," Luna chirped. Dean smiled at her uncertainly through his mouthful of bread.

The kitchen door swung back open and Fleur and Bill came out, laden with bowls of stew. They served Luna and Dean and then took seats at the table themselves. For a moment there was silence. Dean was lost to anything but the food. All of it was light and hardly satisfying, but anything was better than scorched mushroom and underdone salmon. The flavors were almost all too rich. The broth was too sweet. The meet was too spicy. He almost gagged on the rush of unfamiliar tastes.

Bill reminded him to slow down enough to breathe.

After three bowls of stew Dean sat back in his chair. He wasn't full. He felt as if he could keep eating for days, but he'd been reminded again that he was in a _house_. This was civilization, not the woods.

There was the light sound of scuffling from the floor above them. Eyes were drawn to the ceiling.

"What do you reckon they're doing up there?" said Dean without thinking.

"I don't know," said Bill almost mournfully and then, "So, what's your story, Dean? How did you get caught? How long have you been with Harry?"

Dean cleared his throat. He struggled to collect his thoughts. He knew explanations would be asked for but he hadn't been quite _prepared_. Slowly he began. He recounted what had happened to him, feeling oddly detached, as though he was telling a well-memorized bedtime story and not actual events.

He spoke of getting word from Seamus about how bad the Ministry had gotten. He received warning not to turn himself in for Muggle-born registration. He'd left his step-father, mother, and sisters, and set out on his own. Originally he had aimed to get out of the country.

He had gotten lost. He hadn't enough food or money. He didn't know how safe it was to use magic. He was unaware of how dire the situation with Muggle-borns was, how serious the Ministry was about rounding them up and what they were doing to them once they were caught.

Dean had gotten caught by Snatchers about four weeks in.

"They didn't seem to be too bright," he explained. He carefully looked at his empty stew bowl. The white porcelain was stained with strips of tomato base broth. Dark green shards of sage stuck to the walls. "I managed to stun two before they got a hold of me. I kept hold of my wand – I think they might have broken one or two of my ribs. It was then when I ran into Ted Tonks."

A shadow seemed to cross Bill's face, half of which was covered in tightly stretched, glossy scars. Dean looked away.

"He jumped out of the bushes and distracted the snatchers enough to let me get out of the arms of the one who was holding me. I don't know where he came from. He must have heard us struggling, must have figured it was a Muggle-born. He could have just walked away. He didn't need to help –" _Stop. Don't go into detail. Dean didn't need to go into details…. _

"We both managed to finish them off. Ted apparated us away because my chest was really starting to hurt. I don't know, I guess that made me black out because the next thing I knew I had woken up on the ground with Ted's jacket over me and my ribs repaired. I don't know what would have happened in Ted hadn't shown up. He probably saved my life, not for the last time, either –" Dean stopped.

He coughed and continued.

"We traveled together for about five days before we met up with Dirk Cresswell. He'd joined with two goblins, Griphook," Dean nodded to the ceiling, "and Gornuck. We – it felt safer in a pack, but we were easier to track so we had several more brushes with Snatchers after that. Some of them were just petty treasure hunters and easy to avoid, but then there were other groups, much more dangerous – like the one from last night." _Had it honestly just been that last night? _

"Eventually we ran into a really bad group. It was – it was after Christmas." It was getting more difficult to talk. Dean cleared his throat again, staring fixedly at his bowl, his spoon, his crumb scattered napkin. "They were using – they were using killing curses because something had come out about dead –" he coughed again, "dead or alive, same price as long as you brought back the body."

The table was silent. He thought Fleur might have been crying. "They," Dean's voice was not his own. It was oddly high-pitched and thick. He could barely force the words up his throat. "They got Ted. Dirk and I got away with the goblins. We – we couldn't…. there wasn't anything we could do. Killing curse, straight to the chest. There wasn't anything we could do –"

Dean felt his eyes begin to burn. It was funny, it had been months and he hadn't ever cried. All of a sudden the wound felt so fresh, so raw. Ted was lying on the ground in front of him, eyes widened in shock and heart unbeating.

"We managed for about a month after that," Dean forced himself to continue, "then we ran into another group. They got Gornuck and Dirk – It was hard after that. We needed food. We were getting careless. Griphook and I basically just pranced into the arms of the snatchers from last night. We were on our way back to the Ministry when something led the group right to Harry. That – that's just about it."

Dean finished. He breathed deeply, trying to ease the tension in his throat. There was a clattering of footsteps on the stairs and Dean looked up as Harry, Ron, and Hermione passed across the kitchen door. Harry nodded but the trio continued to walk and there was a slam as they left through the front door.

"Something's wrong," said Luna, "Did you see Harry's face? Something about his eyes. It happened in the cellar, too."

Everyone looked at her.

"Didn't you notice?" she said.

"What about you, Luna?" said Bill. Something about his voice reminded Dean of a tone one might use at the bed of someone sick or not completely mentally sound, something soothing and breathing of calm. "What happened to you after Christmas? We heard from Ginny how they took you at Kings Cross."

Luna seemed to stare at all three of them at once as she began, "Not much, really. They brought me to the Malfoy's straightaway. Ollivander was there. They asked me some questions. I don't think I told them anything. I hadn't anything really to tell them, anyway."

Dean felt his stomach twisting. Luna said it so matter-of-factly. She seemed serenely unconcerned. Bill looked troubled.

"I should like to get home soon," Luna continued, "Daddy must be worried." Bill didn't say anything. He exchanged a look with his wife which Luna held in innocent disregard. Dean thought the silence was pressing, significant somehow, and looming.

"What about Ginny?" said Dean, wanting some sort of distraction and falling upon something that had preyed upon his mind for months. "I heard something about her from Dirk and the goblins. They mentioned you, too, Bill. It was early on in the year, something about her at Hogwarts –"

"Oh that," said Bill, "That wasn't too bad. She and Neville, you were there two, Luna, I think – it was something about them sneaking in to steal from Snape. They only got detention. We've been getting stories like that all year. Admittedly they've been getting darker…Snape has been starting to crack down hard on troublesome students."

"Dumbledore's Army, still recruiting," said Luna happily.

Dean felt a grin spread across his face almost unwillingly. "Brilliant," he said.

Bill smiled but didn't seem convinced.

"Now zat you 'ave eaten you should get some rest," said Fleur gently, beginning to gather up their dishes. "You must be exhausted."

Dean nodded right away, because it was true.

"But it's light out," said Luna unexpectedly. "It's morning."

A smile flickered uneasily across Fleur's face, "Zen, by all means, you may do as you pleese."

Luna smiled happily and stood from the table, "Thank you for the food. It was good. I'll have to get you some fresh-water plimpies some time. I'm going to go outside." She flounced away and disappeared with another opening and closing of the front door.

"What about you, Dean?" said Bill, "No offense but you look bloody awful. I can imagine some sleep would feel good."

Dean smiled and stood. "Great," he said. Fleur led him upstairs and through a doorway into a room. He collapsed onto the bed there, closed his eyes, and was lost to all but the darkness.

* * *

"Come on." Dean didn't want to. He wanted to fall to his knees. He wanted to stop running, to sleep, to cry….

"Hurry up." No. No Dean couldn't. He couldn't go another step. He couldn't go another day, another night reliving the flashes of green light, the crows of triumph that meant another Muggle-born had been hit, was dead….

"Come on, son." Stop. Let him alone. Let him fall to his knees. Let him sleep. Let him die…

"Blast it, son! They're catching up!" Let them. Let them catch up. Let the race be over. Dean would be glad, glad to stop running, to let them get him….

"Lift your feet, blast you! I can't do this by myself!"

Then drop him. Leave him there. Dean was finished, of no more use. Let him stay. Let them find him.

"Almost there." Dean felt the last of his resolve leave him as they broke upon a clearing. The goblins were there, grabbed hold, and as a group they dissaparated in a swirling torrent of color and sound.

The crack of apparition rebounded in Dean's head. He awoke with a start.

Light was streaming from the other side of the curtained window. Dean had evidently not been sleeping for very long, else it was already a new day.

He cautiously untangled himself from the blankets. The bed was too soft; his pillow had left him feeling smothered and with a crick in his neck. It was all so unfamiliar. The air around him felt stale and hot; he was so used to breathing out in the open.

He ran a hand through his hair and realized he was shaking.

"Drink this," Dirk had said, and pressed something steaming and warm into Dean's trembling hands. _Steady the hand, Dean. Can't draw if you haven't got steady hands._

"Drink it, son," said Dirk again, and Dean became aware that he was only staring into the steaming liquid's depth. "Make you feel better." Dirk sat across from the fire, holding his own steaming mug.

The goblins sat in the shadow outside of the circle of flickering light. They were speaking in low voices together, perhaps about the day, perhaps about how the hadn't fought, perhaps about how this was a _wizard's war _and goblins should stay well enough out of it.

A bit of the hot liquid in Dean's mug sloshed out and landed on his pants. He hissed in pain at the searing heat.

Dirk coughed at him in a manner that hid amusement.

"To the war, Dean," said Dirk hoarsely, raising his mug, "It's not over yet." His words dripped of bitterness but Dean had weeks ago become accustomed to Dirk's cynicism. Tonight it only raised sharp awareness the contrast of Ted's jovial laugh, cheering smile, word of comfort… brought stark consciousness to its absence.

"Died easily, son," grunted Dirk, "that's about all we can be thankful for these days."

To be sucked so hastily of all life and breath, to be gone so suddenly from the world, gone from consciousness so rapidly you couldn't even be aware of your leaving, aware that the time to say good-bye had come and went…. No, Dean could not think that as an easy death.

Dean stared into the crackling flames. _How do you paint fire?_ He had never gotten it right. How do you paint a dissipating gas, something that leaps red for a moment and in that same moment is gone – is smoke? How did he make it glow?

Unconsciously he took a sip of whatever was in his mug. The liquid seared his throat but he gulped it down, taking another draught because it eased his pain and warmed him if only superficially.

_You have to feel it, to draw it. You have to understand it, to sympathize with it. Otherwise you'll never breathe life into it._ _It will never be real. _Even so, Dean thought he'd never be able to select the exact tint of green and yellow, the exact measures of blue and gold that shimmered through the stream of light that had struck Ted in the chest and left him lifeless.

Dean knew that people associated red and black with death, but that wasn't right. If he should ever sketch the hooded figure he would color him in a robe of green and give him an emerald crown, entwine his claw about a jade encrusted scythe. His eyes, of course, would glint with green-eyed malice.

Dean shook the remaining blankets and haunting memories off of him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He felt suddenly the uncontrollable urge to move. He slid on his shoes and stepped quickly out of the room.

The house was silent. Dean crept down the stairs and into the hallway. He walked towards the front door and pushed it open because the outdoors was calling to him. He hadn't been inside a house for months. It didn't feel comfortable. Dean hadn't realized until now that he felt stifled. Nothing felt natural but the clear air, grass beneath his feet, and sky overhead instead of ceiling.

A rush of cool air, breathing of salt and sea, met his face as he stepped through the door. Dean breathed deeply, letting his lungs expand in a wonderful shiver of freedom. The garden in front of him was full of sea grass and large, sand-colored stones. Little white blossoms had erupted at the tips of some of the grass. The colors around him seemed mostly bleached, varying shades of molted browns, greens, and grays.

Dean saw Luna off towards a clump of beach trees that grew away from the cliff. She was kneeling by their trunks, caressing the dirt and grass and leaves as if they were old friends, reacquainting herself with life as Dean would have to do with human company and walls.

"Rest well?" said a companionable voice, and Dean turned to see Bill coming around the corner of the cottage.

"Thanks," said Dean.

Bill ran a hand roughly over his scar-lined face. He looked exhausted and world-weary. "It's tough, what you kids have been through."

Dean looked at him for a moment before replying, "The war's tough."

Bill didn't answer. He pulled his hand away from his face and looked into the distance. His eyes lighted upon Luna. Dean looked back over and noticed she was lying flat on her stomach, examining a toadstool from a better vantage point.

"Don't tell her yet," said Bill quietly, "but her house was found half-way blown apart. No one knows where her father is. They've taken him. Possibly Azkaban, possibly worse."

Dean didn't say anything. He didn't know quite what it was he was supposed to say. He had heard many hard things, innumerable hard things this past year. He felt his stomach sink as if something heavy had been deposited there. Somehow he didn't like hearing something like this, something that would damage Luna – especially Luna. She was – she seemed so innocent. Dean didn't like to think that she was so affected by the war.

_But she _was_ affected by the war_, Dean remembered sadly. She had spent over four months locked in a cellar, threatened with death and probably tortured – although she hadn't said it in so many words. Luna had gone through plenty, had seen plenty, and had lost plenty.

Dean supposed they had all been innocents once.

Bill chatted off-handedly for a moment longer before drifting away. Harry, Ron, and Hermione seemed nowhere in sight. Dean could hear Fleur singing softly from the back of the house. His eyes drifted back over to Luna, whom had stood up and was gently stroking the bark of a beach tree.

Without thinking Dean began walking towards her.

"Hello, Dean," said Luna without turning around.

"Hello," said Dean.

"Look at that," Luna pointed to the sky, peeping from between the branches of the trees.

"What about it?" he said.

"It's so open. No walls."

Dean didn't know what to say.

"This is real, isn't it?" said Luna. "I used to have dreams like this."

"It's real," said Dean.

"Good," said Luna, "I wouldn't have wanted you to tell me if it wasn't."

Dean watched her silently. She pulled a branch down close to her face and stroked the budding green leaves.

"They were always nice dreams," Luna continued. "The worst thing about them was waking up."

They were standing on the very edge of the forest, in plain sight of the cottage. It was odd, to be standing out in the open like this. Had Dean still been in hiding, he would have hustled further into the coverage of the trees.

"It's sad that Dobby died," said Luna. "It would have been nice to thank him in person – in elf. It's sad that the only time I was able to meet him he was gone, and then dead. I'm glad he rescued me."

"I'm glad he rescued you too, Luna," said Dean. He felt uncomfortable. "It must have been hard for you, being shut up in that cellar for all those months."

"Ollivander had been there longer," said Luna simply. "I'm happier that he was rescued. I wouldn't have minded staying as long as I knew he was safe."

Luna drifted into silence. Dean leaned against a tree, turning so that he could look out over the low wall that separated the cottages garden from the cliff's edge. The sea was moving down below them. He could hear its constant, soothing rush. He could see the mix of blue and dark gray, the white-tipped waves, and swirling greens. He made himself stare at it for a long while. Perhaps someday, when he had the time and the war was over – if the war ever was – he would try to paint it.

He was truly thankful for the elf that had rescued him. Dean berated himself not to take it for granted, not to ever take anything for granted. Dean could have died – perhaps should have died had it not been for Dobby. Some nameless creature whom had been looked down upon all his life yet somehow found it in his little being to rescue wizards, his tormentors. Dean did not understand it. It was a sacrifice he could not comprehend.

Someday, too, Dean wanted to paint what it felt to apparate. He wanted to capture the swirl of colors and explosion of sound. He wanted to start with a black canvass and make people see what it felt to be squeezed between the folds of time and space, something otherwise incomprehensible.

It had been so long, too long, since Dean had held a paintbrush in his hand, a pencil between his fingers, and stared at an empty page. His hands ached for the chance to etch a picture onto paper, to create a landscape out of nothing. A part of him, however, was afraid he had forgotten how.

Dean's mind flew back to third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts. The boggart had transformed into a severed hand.  
It wasn't that Dean was particularly afraid of gruesomely detached body parts. The hand was his – _Dean's_. It was his right hand. It was his drawing hand. It represented so much more than a painful injury, but a loss of a dream, the termination of a talent and a passion.

Dean didn't want to take the chance, to hold pen in hand and realize that fear had somehow become reality. Beside him Luna was on the ground again, sitting cross-legged and humming as she poked at a worm unearthed from the ground by the tree roots. Her voice seemed to float through the spaces between air and time – as if it was coming from inside Dean's own head.

* * *

Time passed. It was odd, to not be moving. Dean was used to changing positions often, while being on the run. It made it more difficult for people to track you. Always moving, always changing. There had been no chance to become acquainted.

Now Dean found it vaguely disconcerting to be in the same place for more than a week. He realized he must have once been used to it, this steady schedule, never ending system of waking, eating, talking, not moving. It was amazing how quickly he had fallen out of the habit, amazing how difficult he was finding it to get back in.

He was restless. He spent most of his time out-doors, detached from human company that demanded conversation and adaptability. He craved the open air and smell of green things mixed with the sea. He paced the gardens, explored the edges of the forest, and ambled over the broken cliff-sides, because he couldn't _not_ move. He needed the bounce in his step, the crunch of his feet upon the ground to keep him sane.

Often times he joined Luna, because she demonstrated the same pent-up desire to be among the living, not the man-made. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were rarely around. They spent much of their time in the cottage. They were planning something with Griphook but trying to keep it all on the underhand.

The world seemed to slow down, minutes turned to hours, and Dean realized all that had been missing this past year. He had not had time to reflect before; the urgency of the present had always so outweighed the urgency of the past – or future. He realized he missed his mother, father, and sisters. He missed Seamus and Neville. He missed the teachers. He missed the hallways.

"I never thought I would," said Dean to Luna, one evening while they had stopped their wanderings to lean against the wall overlooking the ocean. The sun was hanging low in the sky, packing for its journey around the world but not quite departing yet. "miss Hogwarts, I mean. I always hated that place – the rules and the homework. I couldn't wait to graduate. Funny, now it's the only place I'd really like to be."

"It isn't really, Dean," said Luna, "It's different. Hogwarts isn't the place it was, the place you wish you were."

"I know," said Dean, "But I – what I meant was – I wish it _was_ the same. I wish it wasn't changed and that I was there."

"I think I know what you mean," said Luna. Her face was turned to the setting sun so that Dean could only see her soft smile spread across half her face. Slowly she had begun to regain the color in her cheeks and opaqueness of her skin. She looked almost whole now, almost untouched. But not quite.

Luna was a white canvass, had been anyway. Now she was spattered with the ink of war: the dark blue of tragedy, the gray of pain, green of labor, the black from loss of innocence, and the red of cruelty, death, and courage. She'd once been pure and white, unblemished, a blank page but now she was – was marred.

But it was beautiful, that masterpiece of brushstrokes. The merging of colors left something raw and rare, and wholly beautiful – a landscape far more magnificent then Dean could ever hope to paint. And from beneath the splatters of color, the scratches, the blots, and scribbles, a bit of white occasionally shown through, startling and illuminating: a bit of sun from a sky dispersing of rain.

"I think Daddy must be alright," said her voice. They had finally gotten around to telling her about her house and father.

It had happened unintentionally, which meant she had mostly guessed. Harry, Ron, and Hermione revealed that they had been present when it had happened, had not been able to shed much light on subject, but had at least given Luna something resembling information.

"I hope he is, Luna."

"I know he is. Even if he's dead he's alright."

The sun continued to sink below the horizon, blushing pink and soft orange on the tips of the waves.

"But I think I would know if he was dead," Luna continued. "I think I would feel something, don't you?"

Dean didn't know. He had felt something when Ted and Dirk had died, but that had been because he'd seen it, had felt it with gut-wrenching certainty because it had happened right in front of him. He didn't know if he would feel something otherwise. He believed in connections between people, blood and friendship but nothing mental or spiritual. Maybe he would feel something, maybe he would know, but he wasn't sure.

"I'm sure he's alright, Luna."

Unconsciously his arm dropped at his side and suddenly her fingers were wrapped in his. Her palm was smooth and warm. He could feel her pulse against his.

"Thank you, Dean." she said.

* * *

It took Dean several weeks before he was able to take a pencil and white sheet of paper down to the cliff. Partly it was because before then he'd not been able to sit still. Slowly the blood in his veins calmed to a trickle, and he found that he could pull his knees up to his chest, nestle a sketch book there, and sit for hours – painfully sketching each blemish into the white paper.

With a relief that made something in his throat hitch and his hand tremble, Dean realized he still could. His fingers knew the paths well, could remember their vocation almost as if it hadn't been so long. There was still paper, pencils, and paint. There was still art and beauty. Dean hadn't lost his hand, hadn't lost his mind, his imagination. All his fingers were still in working order.

Luna would join him often, sitting motionless while he sketched, or else lying on her stomach and poking at the grass, humming tunelessly but with a sort of disjointed rhythm. It wove in his mind and seemed to bring a kind of comfort, an always changing wave of sound, something that he couldn't grasp but would always be there.

He'd sit there until the sun disappeared far enough behind the horizon that the darkness made it impossible to see the canvass. Then he and Luna would sit for a moment in the dusk, feeling the cool night air and breathing the salty breeze splashed on their faces.

One night, when the last orange glow of the setting sun was fading into the midnight blue of the rest of the sky, Dean laid aside his notebook early. He flipped the cover over the page he was working on and set it to his side on the grass, putting his quill carefully on top.

It was one of the times when Luna was sitting quietly cross-legged at his side. Her face was turned toward the darkening sky, eyes gleaming and lips slightly parted –

And suddenly those lips were on his. His head was turned toward hers, neck twisted so the angle wasn't so awkward. His arm was behind him, propping him up. Her hair was blowing against his cheek.

She made a slight noise, like the intake of breath, and Dean pulled away. Her eyes were still glistening, now with the reflection of the emerging starts. Her eyebrows were raised, lips still parted. She looked surprised.

Then again, Luna always looked surprised.

"No one's ever kissed me before, Dean," she said finally. Her voice was sweet and musical, as it always was. But it sounded matter-of-fact, as well – not gentle or pondering, simply very level. _No one has ever kissed me before_, as though it was a remark on the weather. _It was cloudy out today, Dean._

"What is one to do now?"

Dean laughed, because she said it so earnestly, but he felt slightly disconcerted. That hadn't been what he'd expected. He hadn't been expecting anything at all, really, because he hadn't been planning on doing that. He didn't know what had come over him….

He cleared his throat, "I – I'm sorry, Luna – I shouldn't have…should have asked you –"

"Oh, it's quite alright," said Luna, "I didn't mind. Quite enjoyed it, really."

"Oh," said Dean. He didn't know how to react to this. He didn't know – hadn't expected – what had he been thinking? "I'm glad."

What kind of a thing was that to say? This wasn't going at all as it was supposed to – shouldn't have happened in the first place….

"Are you good at kissing?" said Luna. "I expect you are, because of all of it you did with Ginny. I was probably terrible."

"No you weren't," said Dean hastily. "I mean – I haven't had too much…practice."

"You're just being modest," said Luna.

Dean shifted so that he wasn't looking at her. He was suddenly, pointedly uncomfortable.

"So," said Luna. "I'm still a bit fuzzy on the formalities: what now? Or do we just sit here not talking and pretend it didn't happen? Or maybe do we hold hands? That seems appropriate, doesn't it?"

Then her fingers were entwined in his. Dean tried to quiet his squirming stomach, tried to get a hold on his brain – which seemed to have taken flight and scattered to the winds. He didn't know what he was supposed to say. Even if he did he couldn't say it because his tongue seemed to have tied itself in a knot.

Thankfully Luna proceeded, "You're a good friend, Dean. I'm glad I've gotten to know you over these past weeks. I never knew you were so nice, before. Ginny described you as a brainless oaf once, and because I didn't know any different I believed her. I think she was upset after the breakup, though, so I wouldn't worry. She probably doesn't think you're a brainless oaf anymore."

"Oh, good." Somehow Dean's voice slipped up his throat and somehow that was what he said. Somewhere in a corner of his mind not affected by this madness he was laughing at himself in wry, blackly ironic humor.

"But I think maybe we can just be friends, you know?" Luna's voice continued. "I don't think war is a very good time start a relationship – but thank you, anyway. It was nice of you to think of me."

"Sure. Okay. That's – that's fine. I'm glad we're friends, too, Luna." And after that Dean couldn't make any more sounds come out of his lips. He was very thankful when Luna didn't say anything else, either. She started humming again, still holding his hand.

Now that the pounding in his brain had quieted, Dean had the time to think. He still didn't know what had come over him. Luna – he'd never thought of Luna like that…never really even thought of her at all up until these past weeks. He was strangely relieved that Luna didn't seem like she'd thought of him much either – like that.

He supposed he had kissed her just because it had – had felt somehow right. He'd always gone with his gut where those things were concerned – which was probably why the thing with Ginny had turned out to be such a fiasco.

They'd both been a bit hot-headed, had jumped the gun, let their hormones take over, not looked where they were going to see the roadblock. He had been happy when Ginny had finally ended it. It had taken him a while to realize that, but eventually he discovered that he was actually perfectly happy with how it turned out. He was glad Ginny had found herself someone else a bit more level-headed. After living in the same dormitory with him for six years, Dean knew that Harry really was an okay guy.

But Luna – now that he stopped to think about it quietly, with her hand wrapped in his but at least with no declarations of love, he discovered that he honestly didn't want to be in a relationship with her either. She was sweet and understood his art, touched him mostly because they were both alone, lost, and so bloody confused about the war, but under that she was still – well she was still a bit weird.

Dean didn't understand her. It might have been selfish and little bit pig-headed but he couldn't ever imagine bringing her home to his parents. He'd be too embarrassed by their confusion. Merlin, he couldn't imagine bringing her to his friends. Seamus would laugh. Everyone would laugh, Parvati, Lavender – behind his back when they were sure he wasn't looking – but Seamus would laugh to his face.

He had kissed Luna, he supposed, when all the other things had been sorted through, because she had been there. They were both alone. She was the first girl he had come into contact with in months, first girl to be so close to him, to speak to him, to touch him in merlin-had-it-been-that-long. There hadn't been any reason not to kiss her. And as she hadn't minded, Dean wasn't concerned, hadn't anything to feel guilty about. She'd even said she'd enjoyed it.

Just then Fleur's voice rang out from the cottage, "Dean, Luna, what are you doing een the dark? Come eento the house!"

Luna sighed. "Come on, Dean. I guess we've got to go. 'Til next time." It was almost as if she spoke to the sun that had just sunk below the horizon.

* * *

Author's Note: I would love beyond love to get a couple reviews, just to know what everyone thinks of this.

Next chapter: Neville and the Battle of Hogwarts. It might have been his first kiss but it wasn't Luna's. Dean had got there first and now Neville felt strangely done, as if he'd quite like to forget about the battle and creep up to his dormitory, climb into bed, perhaps shed a few tears….


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